Smoke 'Em If You Got 'Em

I am a smoker.

I don't really feel the need to apologize for this. In fact, I would like an apology from every person who has gone out of their way to let me know what an asshole I am for personally ruining all of the air. Especially the ones that, regardless of my attempts to contort out of their path, make an effort to walk as close to me as possible while fake coughing and sending hate bullets into my face with their eyes. 

Even so, being a smoker is not something I am necessarily thrilled about.

I fondly look back on the days when I claimed I was just a social smoker and it was true. That ship has sailed so far that I can't remember the last time I actually said that.

I find myself waffling about the whole to quit or not to quit thing. I want to quit. Obviously it isn't that easy. What I really want is to get in a time machine and never start smoking in the first place. Then my present self would have no idea of the euphoria she was missing out on. Science should work on making that happen.

I also don't want to become one of those evangelical Former Smokers. I see this bit of the world split into four major groups:

1. Non-Smokers
2. People Who Smoke and Feel Guilty
3. People Who Smoke and Truly Don't Give a Fuck
4. People Who Have Quit Smoking.  

I find that a lot of people in that last category believe that, because they have quit smoking, they are better than the poor chumps shelling out money to feed an addiction that, to many people, is more abhorrent than clubbing baby seals. They are so much better that, if they spit on us from their pedestals, their spittle of condescension would likely freeze in the atmosphere and kill us from the velocity accrued on the long, long journey down.
I don't want to become one of those people.

But I certainly fall into the People Who Smoke and Feel Guilty category. I don't think I'm cool because I smoke. I don't think it makes me edgy or sexy or whatever people think people who smoke think about themselves. I just feel bad about it and kind of embarrassed that I thought I was somehow immune to getting addicted. Most of my guilt is actually fear because I have a morbidly unhealthy relationship with the idea of mortality. I occasionally dip my toe in the Gotta Die of Something pool and run away screaming.

Obviously the best part of this film.

But there is some true guilt.

Some of the actual guilt is financial. Some family history. Some is just the recognition that what I am doing is pretty stupid. At the same time, I have been a smoker for almost four years now, and it feels almost like a piece of my identity. My irrational brain almost believes that if I quit smoking I will have no sense of humor and no friends. This is, hopefully, not true. My personality is not built on a platform of Marlboro Lights. I was who I am before I started. There is no reason I won't be the same me, only crankier, when I quit.


It is always scary to talk to people who have quit smoking and claim to miss it every second of every day of their lives. Lord knows I don't need that kind of nagging distraction. But those are the good people. The people who admit that they miss it. As the second most addictive chemical substance out there, I think anybody who claims to miss nothing about being a smoker is a liar and trying to make me feel bad about myself because I haven't had a cigarette in 20 minutes and I already miss it.

So I guess all I am trying to say is I'd like to quit smoking and I'd like to miss it.

Things I Believe Are True That Totally Aren't

I am a master excuses-maker. I can convince myself of nearly anything and then use it as a totally legitimate reason to do or not do things. This talent occasionally lets me flap my little wings in the face of obviously adverse circumstances. Like, when the world says stuff like, "Hey, kid, nobody ever gets to be a professional actor, and you have all this stuff working against you," my brain says stuff back like, "Hey world, I'm going to kick you in your teeth." 

It has worked in my favor at least once.

But more often than not, my penchant for excuses-making just hinders my productivity. For example, right now I am like, "I have this fairly mediocre idea about making excuses and if I don't write about it now I will probably forget that blogs or words like 'excuses' exist so, I'm just not going to take a shower even though I have to go to work in 40 minutes because this is VERY IMPORTANT."

See how that got away from me?

There are a couple of things that I know are not true but I have allowed to take root in my brain and serve as reasons why I can't be a functioning adult human.

1. My house has anti-clean magical powers.

Some people might say the house is never clean because we are lazy. We have a lot of animals running around. We moved in almost a year ago and never succeeded in fully unpacking. But sometimes we DO clean and it is really nice and smells good for about 45 minutes and then we leave for 8 minutes and it's like the cleaning process never happened. I'm not sure how or why this occurs, but I have to believe the house is possessed by something really evil and that no matter how hard we try to keep it clean it will just morph back into an episode of Hoarders while we aren't looking.

Conclusion: Never Clean Again.

2. If I never do laundry, my clothes will better fit in my room.

Piggy-backing on the theme set by #1, I have a really hard time making myself do laundry on a regular basis despite the fact that our apartment is so small that the washing machine is never more than 20 feet from where I'm standing. I rationalize this by telling myself that if all of my clothes were clean at the same time, I wouldn't be able to fit them in my room (which actually might be true). A normal person's solution would be to go through the clothes, wash them, and donate a large portion to Goodwill. Obviously I am not wearing them and they are not special to me if they have been sitting in a hamper, or on the guest bed, or on the bathroom floor for more than three months.

Instead, I stash laundry all over the house without an ounce of stealth or even logical planning.

Conclusion: I might be a terrible roommate.

3. Eating Taco Bell once a day, but nothing else, is the same as being on a diet. 

Somewhere in the recesses of my brain is an infomercial or a movie or a documentary where somebody puts a single M&M on a giant plate and places it next to a 6 course meal and says, "You can have this... or ALL OF THIS for the same amount of calories."


Is that a thing? Did I dream this infomercial? I don't think I did.

Is that wedge of lemon supposed to make foreground plate the winner?

Anyway, I am in no way a certified nutritionist, but I am also not a moron. I know how metabolisms work. I also know how bad Taco Bell is for you. But in my brain I can convince myself that surely a single meal at Taco Bell cannot equal the ideal daily caloric intake for an adult. Therefore, if I am consuming under the maximum daily calories, it is the same thing as being on a diet.

Conclusion: Taco Bell is the best and the worst thing man has created.

4. I can still function like I did in college. 

I graduated from college in 2009. During my college years I could drink a lot, not sleep for days, and live on a diet made up of two major food groups: fried stuff and cheese. Often together. I was footloose and fancy free and just a boatload of self-destructive fun.

I keep dancing on my own.

Aside from developing mentally and emotionally at an average and inevitable rate, I don't feel like I have changed much since college. My mind believes that my body can still tolerate that level of abuse.

Good morning, Starshine.

It can't.

I have come kind of close to accepting that I can no longer pull all-nighters. (There is a big gray area between accepting and simply blacking out after too many hours of not sleeping). The partying aspect is more difficult. I try so hard to rationalize the fact that it now takes me several days to fully recover from three glasses of wine, when I used to be able to drink half a bottle of tequila and cart-wheel to my morning classes the next day. Maybe it's because all I had to eat today was three tacos. Maybe it's because I only got 6 hours of sleep instead of the 8 I need to be functional. Maybe I was dehydrated from all that manual labor I did earlier (never).

Whatever the reason, the hangover I have today could not possibly, in any way have anything to do with the drinking I did yesterday. It also has nothing to do with the fact that college was five years ago and bodies do not function in their mid twenties the way they do in their late teens.

Conclusion: I am an old person.

5. Doing stuff I don't want to do is not acceptable. 

I used to have a problem getting guilt-tripped into doing an awful lot of stuff I didn't want to do. In recent years, I have over-overcome that problem by flat out refusing to do anything that I feel even slightly adverse to. I believe that if I don't want to do it, it is a waste of my time. Why should I go and potentially be miserable when I could be spending quality time doing nothing by myself at home?

I invent lots of reasons why doing things I don't want to do is a bad idea. I can invent hypothetical scenarios that could easily become HBO docudramas. Rather than just saying no to things and then letting it go, I have to rationalize why going would have been the worst possible decision for me. I work myself into an anxious, emotional frenzy - tears happen sometimes - thinking of all the ways things could go wrong and all the reasons staying home is a better option.

But really, it's probably because I didn't feel like putting on pants.

Usually, when I get dragged into doing what I don't want to do, I end up enjoying myself. Occasionally, I am so mad that I've been forced to leave my comfort zone, there is no chance of enjoying anything. And that's kind of sad.

Conclusion:

Everybody has to do stuff they don't want to do. It's part of life. There is a big difference between making a big decision going against what your gut tells you is right and trying something new and a little bit scary. If I keep making up all of these reasons why I can't do anything then nothing is ever going to happen - good or bad. If I keep justifying bad habits, they will become character. I don't want to be a character of bad habits who lives like Grey Gardens and never takes a risk. There's too much life out there and too much me-ness to keep in a box lidded with should have, could have, would have, but didn't...

And that's why excuses have got to get out of my closet. 

"You'll Meet Things That Scare You Right Out Of Your Pants"

Hey there blog-o-sphere. It has been years. You look great.

A lot has happened. Here's a quick catch up:

1. I graduated twice. Two master's degrees. But like, a year ago. Nailed it.
2. I worked as a for-real-real actor for 4 seconds (6 months) and it was the greatest.
3. ...that's about it.

School sure was a journey. I know the original intent of this blog was to chronicle said journey, but I kind of dropped the ball on that. But luckily, what is far more interesting than my whirlwind through academia and thusfar brief stint in the professional world of theatre, is the time I now spend with Roku, various kinds of cheese, and my feelings.

So, here we go. Take two. Life after school.

What the fuck do I do now?

Right now, I am working as a barista in a small coffee shop in Virginia. I work often and earn little and my sense of self worth is squashed daily under the big, stinky foot of the rude consumer. But, it is often hilarious in a let's make jokes about how awful humanity is kind of way. More to come on that.

To be candid, I am flailing a bit (a lot) right now. All of my structure vanished in a matter of seconds and now, with endless possibility laying before me - all I have to do now is pay taxes and die, bitches -  I find myself unable to move in any direction. Essentially, if my life was a book, it would be the scary middle pages I always skipped in "Oh, The Places You'll Go!"

You know the ones:

That is one phallic gate, am I right guys?

I am restarting this blog to jump start myself. And to figure some things out. And to find my joy again. I hope some people want to come along for the literary-web-ride, but if not that's okay too. Either way, I will hold myself accountable for at least two blog posts a week. No less. No excuses.

Welcome back, Kotter. This is about to get real world real.     

Home for the Holidays

It has been quite some time betwixt updates. I will not lie and say it is because of very hectic holiday-ness. I just find myself in the depths of extreme laziness this time of year - a break from school, entirely too much eating, outings, traveling, rediscovering television - all things that have made me borderline catatonic for the past month or so. I am almost positive I have forgotten how to read for anything beyond the length of a tweet (and I don't even have a Twitter account) and I have watched more programs on cupcake competitions than I care to admit. All intentions of doing "extra work" and "supplementary reading" went out the window the second I was gingerly plopped in front of the family room TV, post wisdom tooth removal. TV is amazing. I forgot. I forgot how magnificent something so mindless can be.  I will certainly not be getting cable at any point during graduate school or nothing will ever get done, except, perhaps, an untimely career change into wedding cake decorator.

Speaking of cake...

I know people don't shut up about the dreaded holiday food crisis and the "battle of the bulge" (an expression that deeply bothers me - perhaps because I always wish it was really the "battle of the bugle" and am left disappointed each time) but seriously, what the fuck? Despite having four teeth violently extracted from my face, making the consumption of solid food next to impossible for some time, I feel like a walking dirigible just from existing around so much food. Like the very air itself became caloric. How does this happen? WHY does this happen? No wonder everybody joins a gym for 14 minutes in January. Truly disheartening.

Although I feel like a mammoth without the fur, home was good. It was nice to be here and see everybody and get snowed in and cuddle with the dog. I am certainly ready to return to my life though. I miss Virginia.

Classes will start next week and I am looking forward to ripping myself out of this holiday-induced laziness, learning how to read full paragraphs again, getting back to getting in shape, and all that learning that happens. I anticipate a very happy 2011.

2010 Fall Season

Tonight, I saw what will probably be the last thing I see in the 2010 resident troupe fall season. I've been at the theatre every day since Thursday, like a groupie freak, but it was very important to me to see everything one more time before the season is over. I cannot believe how much I have learned over the past three months just by watching this incredible group of actors.  Each show this season has touched me in a different and profound way and their work truly amazes me each and every performance. It is one of my favorite parts of being where I am.

I have always been one of those people who has a hard time letting things go. This is probably a horrible trait to have going into theatre, where things are in constant flux. I know I always feel this great lump of depresson when shows I am in come to an end and casts part ways and all of that magical unity breaks down (which is part of the reason I love to do what I do). I am feeling somewhat similarly about the end of this season. I have come to know and love these shows and despite knowing that new and equally spectacular things are to come, the thought that I can no longer have a horrible day and go see Wild Oats and leave genuinely happier is somewhat sad to me.

I could, if I so desired, go to see Fair Maid of the West for what would be the fourth time, tomorrow afternoon, but it I do so there is no way I'll get my school work done. Somehow in the process of compartmentalization and self-justification, I forgot about the second paper I have due on Tuesday as well as the rehearsals and scenework I have in the next three days. I am kind of over this semester. I've learned a lot and now I want to move on to new things - namely, not writing papers. The more I realize the type of work I enjoy - reading, discussion, performance and all things that accompany it - the more I realize that I am not cut out for a life of academia. I just want things to happen. I have no patience. I want to work on one thing, constantly, and that is becomming a better artist. A lot of the things I am doing just feel like I am doing something for the sake of doing something.

Before this gets too angsty, things are happening. Maybe they'll be big things, and maybe they won't, but they are things that I want to do right now, and having something to look forward to is the best way to keep things going along happily. In three days, I'll be on a train home. I'll get to see my whole family and my friends and, of course, my dog. Then Christmas is sooner than soon. I have many things to look forward to in the upcoming semester and beyond and, as I say whatever kind of weird goodbye I have to say to this cluster of shows, I look forward to what is yet to come.

Near Death Experience and a Really Bad Week

I almost died this weekend.

People say things like that all the time. "I laughed so hard I almost died," "I was so embarrassed I could have just died," "Seriously, I was so scared I nearly died." But no, no. I really, genuinely almost died. And once something like this happens, one thinks twice about using any hyperbolic phrases involving death. Because it is just no joking matter.

This is how I feel about it.

My car has been giving me a lot of trouble. If you ask my father, this is a problem I am creating in order to vex him from 500 miles away. But in reality, the car is old and things are just starting to go. Lately, the battery has been dying at every possible inconvenient moment. On Friday, at 3 a.m. the car refused to start. As I've been doing, I asked a friend at the party I was coming from for a jump. However, in order for the cables to reach, the car had to be moved back slightly. So, I, in my infinite car knowledge, shifted it into neutral while standing by the driver side door. And the car started to roll. Fast. Backwards.

This was one of those instants where the human brain tries to have 30 different thoughts at one time. My first thought was that I had Herculean strength and could somehow stop the car from rolling with my own body power. Not so. My second thought was to push the emergency brake under the wheel. Fail. My third thought was to run backwards with the car while continuing to somehow try to stop it. MISTAKE. The open door caught me in the chest, my feet skidded out from under me, down I went and then my brain went, "OHHHH SHIT. THIS IS REALLY GONNA HURT."

I wondered if it was going to be like an elephant stepping on my head, or like the part in 'Who Framed Roger Rabbit' where Judge Doom gets nailed by the steam roller, or if maybe it would somehow just bounce over my sturdy, little frame. I held out little hope for the final option. 

As I attempted to mentally prepare myself to be crushed by my own car, I heard my friend Elizabeth scream my name and felt myself being pulled by the collar out of the path of the careening motor vehicle. Apparently, my head was a safe distance of approximately 8-10 inches from the wheels - it was my legs that really stood (lol) in danger of being rolled over.

When all this was over, and my friend had somehow ninja jumped into the moving car and stopped it from crashing into a building, I started laughing. Really hard. This quickly devolved into me sobbing uncontrollably for about 45 minutes in, what I have been told, was the first panic attack of my life. Future reference, don't have one of those again.

My friend Steph took excellent care of my hysterical being that night and even restrained herself from laughing when I asked if the head of our graduate program would be sad if I was killed being run over by my car and when I proclaimed that I no longer wanted to study clown because I did not think I would ever stop crying. And nobody likes crying clowns. NOBODY.

I spent the following day shaky and sore in a state of, what I imagine is, shock. I am feeling marginally better three days later, but am still a little achey and distractable.

But the story ends not here. NO. Tonight, I took a small dinner break between a meeting and going to the library and my car died AGAIN in an Arby's parking lot on the side of a highway. After calling the tow truck, witnessing the tow-man put my car into neutral and roll it out of the spot (and experiencing Nam-esque flashbacks watching him do it), having the tow-man ask me if I wanted to come help him on his next job and then listening to his life story in the rain, dropping it at the dealership, and packing a bag to move into Steph's house until this is all resolved because I live far from campus (seriously folks, she's a SAINT) I am exhausted and have no desire to do the massive amount of work that I need to do right now for the week aheard.

So thanks car. Thanks universe. Thanks fates that be for conspiring against my sanity and productivity. THANKS. A LOT.

And now it is late and I just ate pizza with jalapeno peppers on it TOO QUICKLY and I feel like there is a 9 ton elephant sitting on my chest, farting out balls of fire and despair.

Work? Probably not happening for a little while.

A Day In The Life

I have an 8 a.m. rehearsal and a cold.

Regardless of these two things, I have decided to post a short account of a typical day in my life as a graduate student, since that was the original purpose of this little blog before I got derailed by chickens and cats (the animal, not the musical, though the musical has an important place in my story collection). Today was a pretty good day, and despite not having had class or having done any homework at all, I'll chronicle this one. Fasten your seatbelts.

9:00 a.m. - AWAKEN.
9:01 a.m. - fall back asleep.

10:30 a.m. - Awaken AGAIN fairly certain that if colds could cause death, death would be coming.

11:00 a.m. - Dragged myself out of bed like the most ill person on the planet and did typical morning type things crankily and with no lust for life.

12:00 p.m. - Large coffee.
12:30 p.m. - Clown workshop. Let's pause here and talk about a good time. I love clowning. It is something I desperately want to be good at and something I intend to put a lot of work into while I am here. The workshop was so fun and helpful and I am glad I went despite my sniffy sick buttfaced cold.

1:45 p.m. - Lunch. During our rather lengthy stint at the cafe, an elderly lady creepily stared me down through the window, a man face planted off his skateboard, and Afrophone was born.

3:00 p.m. - Made a very unnecessary grocery store trip. I needed pomegranates and some form of cold medicine. Otherwise, I was just there for moral support. Many items and a lot of dollars later, I now own a coffee maker, so I consider it all worthwhile.

4:30 p.m. - Began cooking dinner with a good deal of help since apparently I have no idea how to cook ground meat. Seasoning it is scary because it becomes this gigantic meatball-esque mound and who knows if it is going to STAY in giant meatball form once heat is applied? I certainly didn't. Then, how do you know when it is cooked? It's too difficult for me to handle. I had company. I didn't want to salmonella anybody. In the end, spaghetti and meat sauce was a success, though I ate mostly pomegranate, since that is all I ever eat anymore.

7:00 p.m. - Attended Fair Maid of the West. Man, that show gets funnier ever time I see it.
9:45 p.m. - DRANKS.
11:00 p.m. - Visited my favorite pug on the planet (and friends).

12:30 a.m. - Homestead. Still sick, but much happier.
1:34 a.m. - Posted a blog on my fascinating day.

Enjoy.